


Of Over-the-Counter-Therapy and other pastries

by NaTak (IReadYouWrite)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barista!Bard, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Winery-owner!Thranduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 11:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7615435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IReadYouWrite/pseuds/NaTak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ll have… A cappuccino and a butter croissant, please.” He said, without looking at the cashier, eyes still fixed at his smartphone’s screen.</p><p>“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t sell that pastry here.”<br/> <br/>“What?” The businessman briefly looked up, meeting the cashier’s light brown eyes, before looking down again. “Well, then. I’ll have a chocolate croissant.”<br/> <br/>“I apologize, sir.” The cashier said tersely. “Let me rephrase it: we don’t sell croissants here.”<br/><br/>~Yes, another coffee shop AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thranduil's annoyed morning musings

**Author's Note:**

> The things we do for the people we love...
> 
> Beta'ed by Amlia B.

Thranduil did not wait to be greeted.

“I’ll have… A cappuccino and a butter croissant, please.” He said, without looking at the cashier, eyes still fixed at his smartphone’s screen.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t sell that pastry here.” 

“What?” The businessman briefly looked up, meeting the cashier’s light brown eyes, before looking down again. “Well, then. I’ll have a chocolate croissant.”

“I apologize, sir.” The cashier said tersely. “Let me rephrase it: we don’t sell croissants here.” He paused for a long moment and, noticing his client still wouldn’t raise his eyes to look at him, added. “Had you bothered to take your eyes off your phone for one second and actually look at the menu you would know that. Sir.”

Thranduil’s head snapped up at that. A surprised expression crossed his face, before it settled into a smug, condescending one.

“Oh, I see,” he said, voice smooth. “Forgive me for mistaking this establishment for the average small town coffee shop with unpalatable beverages and burnt food.” He made a show of looking around. “I can see now that that would be far above what we actually have here.” He did put his phone away, though.

The cashier – a man in his mid thirties, medium messy brown hair and warm, light brown eyes – leaned back on his stool and crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m sure nobody forced you to enter the shop,” he replied, voice clear, not backing down. “For the ‘poor’ choice you have only yourself to blame.”

Thranduil inclined his head with a smirk on his lips.

“Poor choice, indeed,” he muttered, but finally stretched his neck to read the menu hanging from the ceiling. “Seeing as it can’t be helped, I’ll have a cappuccino and a chocolate muffin.”

The cashier grinned cockily. “But of course, sir. What’s your name?” He asked, grabbing a cup and a marker.

“Is that really necessary?” Thranduil asked in annoyance. “There’s hardly anyone here.”

And that was true. It was very early in the morning and aside from the cashier and Thranduil, the only other people in the shop were an old couple in merry conversation at the table in the corner and a teenager sitting at the end of the balcony, playing with her phone.

The cashier shrugged. “What? You worried I’m going to butcher your name?”

Had Thranduil been anyone else, he would have huffed in exasperation. That was, in fact, something which admittedly irritated him in this kind of restaurants. His name was not exactly commonplace, and it was such a useless waste of time and energy spelling it out just so it could be written in a disposable paper cup.

Since he was not anyone else, his face remained impassive, if slightly bored.

“Not at all,” he said at last. “Bellow-average coffee shops’ attendants are known for their remarkable spelling abilities.” He glanced at the phone’s screen to check the time. “I’m called Thranduil. And hurry if you will, or I’ll be late.”

The cashier wrote it down and set about to prepare the coffee.

“It’ll be 7,90 dollars,” he said, back turned. “To go, I take it?”

Thranduil was about to respond affirmatively when his phone buzzed with a text message. As he read it, he could have groaned.

“It seems,” he replied when the cashier turned around, “that I’ll be enjoying this wonderful environment for some time more.”

The cashier smirked when he collected the payment, quickly going about preparing the order. Thranduil distractedly glanced the barista’s way. Despite his somewhat jerky moves occasionally, it was possible to notice he had some previous experience due to the confidence in the motions. The brown hair was indeed in a tangled half bun, but it appeared to match the man's personality.

“You got stood up?” The barista asked, casually, interrupting Thranduil’s musings.

Thranduil signed as he sat on the balcony near the cash register. “The people I’m to meet were…delayed,” he said, voice tense.

“Happens to the best of us,” the man replied, as he left the balcony to clean the table the old couple had just left.

Thranduil snorted and sipped his coffee. Then he paused, and sipped again, frowning. 

It was astonishingly good. 

He took a bite of the muffin and was startled to find himself simply delighted by the baked sweet.

Turning over the cup in his hands, he looked for the name the cashier had written. And once again he was surprised when he discovered that someone had actually gotten his name right on the first try.

Curiosity picked, he turned to the attendant, who was now back behind the counter, washing some dishes. Thranduil, now setting aside all pretenses of indifference, eyed the man under new light.

The untidy short stubble and slight toned skin would make one think that he spent a great deal of time outside. It contrasted with the closed doors environment he was currently occupying in an intriguing manner. Though the man clearly had a mature demeanor and was no naïve boy anymore, he still presented a remarkable boyish air with his attitude and mischievous eyes. 

“Tell me,” he said unceremoniously, “what is a young man who appears to have finished his studies”, he indicated the cup as the man turned around, “doing working in a place like this?”

The cashier snorted as he dried his hands with a towel and sat at his stool.

“While I do appreciate it,” he replied, “’young’ is something I definitely can’t be called anymore. And certainly not by someone like you.”

Thranduil chuckled and took another bite of his food, gazing over his muffin with languid eyes. He noticed the way the barista’s eyes were drawn to the gloved hand that held the pastry, but the man was sensible enough not to comment.

“Someone like me?” He wondered lightly. “Believe me, I’m older and more experienced than I look,” he paused, considering. “And you depreciate yourself unjustly,” he added with a sly grin.

Thranduil was rewarded by a slight flush that overcame the bartender at those words. 

In his surprise, the brunet sputtered for something to say, but came out empty-handed. He was nervously biting his lower lip, drawing attention to them 

“Anyway,” the businessman continued, casually sipping his coffee, “you didn’t answer my question, mister…”

The cashier blinked; seemingly confused by his client’s apparent mood swings.

“Bowman. Bard Bowman.” He replied at last.

Thranduil nodded once, and waited.

Bard signed and rubbed his eyes. “If you must know,” he said, “I’m the owner and currently only worker at Dale Coffee Shop.”

The businessman raised his eyebrows in surprise and curiosity, still periodically sipping his coffee and nibbling at his food. 

The owner signed again and stared directly into Thranduil’s eyes.

“Clearly you are not from here,” he commented lowly. At his client’s inquisitive look he continued. “This shop has been my family’s for generations. It used to be well known around town. However, eight years ago there were complications and it had to be closed and so it remained until I decided to reopen it recently.”

That sparked a suspicion in Thranduil’s mind.

“How ‘recently’ exactly?” He asked nonchalantly.

Bard glared in response. Thranduil just sipped his coffee some more, patiently waiting.

“Yes, yes, okay. Today was the great inauguration,” the brunet finally admitted begrudgingly.

Thranduil chuckled with mirth. “Ah, I see,” he said teasingly, “that explains a few things.” He eyed Bard. “Such as the appalling treatment of customers by disqualified employees.”

Bard rolled his eyes and huffed.

“Hadn’t you been such an ass,” he muttered, “you would have been treated better.”

Thranduil snorted, checking his phone for any news. Nothing.

“You do know you are quite likely to encounter far worse-mannered customers, right?” The businessman asked, but did not wait for a reply. “But yes, I must admit,” he conceded, bowing his head slightly, “I was rather impolite earlier, and that was uncalled for.

“I must also admit,” he continued, picking up his almost finished muffin, “that the food and beverage of the establishment are altogether satisfying.”

Bard caught him in the euphemism and smirked.

“I’m pleased to know that my humble baking did not offend your noble taste, oh great Thranduil Oropherion,” he said mockingly, but stopped short when he saw the other man’s reaction.

“You know who I am,” he stated austere and suspicious, all traces of mirth gone.

Bard, in turn, looked slightly taken aback.

“Well, yes,” he said. “Your family’s winery is well known in the region–”

“Correct,” Thranduil concurred rather tersely. “However, my family itself tends to maintain a low profile.”

“Correct,” Bard mirrored sarcastically. “I have privileged information, if you will,” he explained. “Part of my family used to handle importation and exportation for yours. The Lakeman?”

The businessman relaxed again, satisfied with the explanation. “Ah, yes. I do remember. But it’s been a few years,” he paused for a moment. “About seven?” He wondered.

“Eight,” Bard responded curtly, busying himself with the new client who had just arrived.

“Good morning madam, what will you have?”

Thranduil tuned out their exchange and focused on finishing his breakfast, taking out his smartphone once again and checking for new messages. There were none. He signed. It was such a bothersome inconvenience having to deal with Oakenshield and his employees. There were always loud and impertinent. And now ‘late’ could be added to the list of offenses. There was no helping it, though, for they were the best construction company in the region.

As the customer left with her purchase, Bard turned to look at Thranduil.

“And what about you?” He enquired, leaning in. “What business does an Oropherion have in a small town like this?”

Thranduil signed and averted his gaze.

“I have dealings with Erebor Inc. We are to negotiate a contract.” He replied bluntly. “There’s an old vacation house in my propriety that is in need of reconstruction. I’ve been putting it out for an indecent period of time.”

“Really? Postulation doesn’t seem like your thing,” Bard commented teasingly. 

Thranduil was about to give a snappy reply, but he hesitated and assumed a somewhat thoughtful expression.

“It really doesn’t, does it?” He mused out loud, eyes lost in memories.  
For a dreadful moment, Thranduil feared the barista/cashier/owner intended to pursue that line of questioning. 

“So… Thorin Oakenshield, right?” Bard interjected suddenly, snapping the blond out of his internal turmoil. Gratefully, Thranduil let himself be brought back to the present, to the pleasant smell of coffee, and chocolate, to the cozy ambience of the shop, so unlike the burning hell his mind so often trapped him into.

 

Thranduil – maintaining the best impassive face he could at the moment – raised an eyebrow. “I wonder how many other recluse presidents of great enterprises you know,” accepting the new topic gracefully he quipped.

Bard chuckled.

“I performed a small task for him a few years back,” the coffee shop owner said in tone of justification. “But besides you two, no one else.” He paused. “Well, if you consider Bag End a ‘great enterprise’, I can add Bilbo Baggins to the list. I had been working for him before deciding to give the shop another shot.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes and snorted. “Great enough, I grant you.” He commented disdainfully.

Bard grinned at him, but said nothing as a young couple had walked in. They were bickering between themselves, but fond expressions adorned their faces.

“Honestly, Faramir,” the blond lady was saying, “you and your brother get yourselves into such mischief…”

The ginger just smiled at her, before turning to Bard.

“Good morning,” he took a look around. “I used to come here a lot as a kid. I’m happy to see Dale open again,” he said with an honest smile.

The cashier beamed, pleased. “As we are to be of service.”

Quickly they ordered, were served and chose a table to sit.

“’We’ says the lonely cashier,” mocked Thranduil when they were safely outside earshot.

Bard glared at him. “It’s a manner of speaking.”

Thranduil snorted, then frowned. “You didn’t ask for their names.” He stated mistrustfully. 

The other man just grinned devilish.

“Maybe I just wanted to learn yours. Or to annoy you,” he said nonchalantly, while pretending to busy himself with some cups.

“But you admitted you knew me,” Thranduil contradicted, irritated.

Bard made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“Mostly by reputation,” he explained. “Only after you introduced yourself I connected the dots.”

The businessman nodded slowly, as if considering, then chuckled lightly. “And to think I was almost impressed by your spelling.”

Bard laughed as well. “At least you were impressed by the baking.”

“Quite.” He smiled softly. Then his phone buzzed. “Finally,” he muttered. After a quick look downwards, he got up and extended his hand over the counter. 

“It was a surprising pleasure, Mr. Bowman,” he said, as they shook hands. “But duty calls.”

“Surprising indeed,” Bard agreed, but then muttered. “Times you think me too young, times you think me too old. Please, just call me Bard.”

Thranduil actually laughed at that.

“And you may call me Thranduil,” he allowed with a sly smile, walking away.

“We thank you for choosing Dale Coffee Shop,” the owner mock bowed. “Do come back to check out the other items in our menu.”

Thranduil looked over his shoulder. “Oh, I certainly will.” And with that he gracefully slipped outside.


	2. Bard's tired evening deliberations

This was madness.

There were at least two dozens of people at Dale Coffee Shop – although it seemed much more. All tables were occupied, most of the balcony was in use as well, and there was a constant five-people-line in front of the cashier. Bard had already spilled six different kinds of beverages in his apron – and thank God for that apron –, burnt both his hands while heating up the milk and dropped an entire batch of bagels on the floor – and hadn’t that been frustrating?

In short, Bard was well out of his depth.

That was the moment the saw a flash of smooth blond hair slipping through the door. His breath caught momentarily, as he remembered his first encounter with the Oropherion a few days before. 

If Bard was being honest, he’d have to say he had half-expected to see Thranduil again the following morning of their meeting, seeing as he had received some pretty positive signals during their strange, but pleasant, conversation.

After four days without any sign of the businessman, he wrote the whole thing off as simply wishful thinking on his part, because, really, a gorgeous, successful and smart-ass man like Thranduil did not got interested in regular, boring guys like Bard.

But now, here he was again.

Soon enough, it was his turn to order.

He was wearing a similar set of clothes as the time before: tight fitting but elegant pants, a caramel coat over a dark turtleneck and soft leather gloves. “Good evening,” he said, with that ever-present smirk.

Bard liked to think the smirk he shot in return rivaled the businessman’s. “Good evening,” he replied. “What will you have?”

“Surprise me,” Thranduil said with that silky, sexy voice.

“Sure,” the other man said easily. “So,” he grabbed the marker and a cup, “name?”

The blond raised an unimpressed eyebrow and said nothing.

“Oh yeah, I think I remember.”

“You’d better.” Thranduil’s smirk widened.

After he had been given his ‘order’, he managed to acquire a table that had just vacated. He took out a slim laptop, and that was the last Bard got to see of him for a long, long while.

About an hour later, the agitation had dimed down, few customers remained and soon it would be time for closing up. Bard left the counter, rubbing his hands in a fresh towel. He quickly got to the door and turned the sign to ‘closed’. A handful of minutes earlier wouldn’t make much difference, he reasoned. Then he strolled towards Thranduil, who seemed absorbed in whatever it was he was doing in his computer.

If Bard slowed his steps just to have a few more moments to ogle unabashedly at the blond, well, who could blame him? Thranduil was an immaculate piece of art, pretty similar to a marble statue, just slightly more hot, perhaps. 

The golden locks running around the man’s shoulders and back gave him an ethereal air, the pale skin harmonizing quite well. 

His features were sharp, and yet delicate on their own manner. The intense blue eyes just accenting the already impressive semblance.

“Was everything up to your expectations?” He asked, as he sat down across the other man, thinking of the vanilla frappuccino and cinnamon roll.

Thranduil slowly closed his laptop and looked up at him.

“Thoroughly,” he murmured.

Bard heard the door opening, and turned around to see the last of his clients leaving. Now it was just the two of them.

”Today was tiresome,” he commented. “I didn’t remember it being so demanding.”

Thranduil snorted. “You should hire someone. It’s too much work for one person alone,” he stated assertively.

“Yeah, I know,” Bard admitted ruefully. “I used to–“ He cut himself, looking away. “My kids will be on vacation soon, so at least I can count on their help in the near future… But you’re right. I can’t manage on my own.”

Thranduil inclined his head.

“So you have children?” He enquired, curiously.

“Three of them,” Bard answered with a smile. “Two girls and a boy. Sigrid is 16, Bain is 12 and Tilda will be eight in a few days.” He then searched for his cellphone in his pockets and found it on the third try. He turned it on and handed it over. His background picture was one of his three kids during last Christmas.

Thranduil gazed at the screen fondly. “They are lovely,” he commented, returning the phone. “You must be proud.”

“I certainly am,” Bard agreed readily. “And what about you? Got any children?”

Thranduil’s eyes clouded with heavy feeling, before clearing out.

“I do,” he said faintly at last. “A boy.” He chuckled bitterly. “Well, he’s a man now. Has been for a while.”

“In our eyes, our children will always be our children,” Bard said understandingly, and tentatively reached out with his hand, touching Thranduil’s briefly.

He smiled softly. “You are quite right.”

“So,” Bard started with a barely concealed smirk, “how were business with Thorin?”

Thranduil’s expression morphed into one of extreme contempt and disdain.

“As troublesome as always,” he snorted. “He seems to take pleasure in arguing just for the sake of arguing.”

“Something you can bond over, hopefully,” Bard commented innocently.

Thranduil glared at him, but it was not with usual intensity. Soon the silence fell over them, and as Thranduil took a long look through the window, Bard took a good look at him.

The blond, though as breath-taking as always, presented slight dark circles guarding his eyes that – Bard noticed with sudden concern – appeared to be clouded with more than occupational hazard-related nuisances.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

“What?” The blond turned his head quickly away from the window. “What do you mean? I’m perfectly fine,” he said shortly and impatiently, staring directly into Bard’s eyes.

Bard did not back down.

“You seem tired,” he offered.

And with that, Thranduil appeared to deflate. He signed, slumped his shoulders and lowered his gaze. His covered hands started fiddling with a lock of gold smooth hair. That was the less elegant and proper Bard had ever seen him.

“Yes,” he admitted quietly, still not meeting Bard’s eyes. “You are right, I’m tired.”

And for a couple of minutes nothing else was added. 

“The truth is,” Thranduil finally said, as if concluding a battle with himself. “The business I had with Oakenshield regarded something personal. Something I have some difficult dealing with…” He trailed off, at last raising his eyes to meet Bard’s, as if willing him to understand.

Bard nodded slowly, and an idea struck him.

“Maybe–,” he started tentatively, watchful for the other man’s reactions. “Maybe we are going through similar things.” He paused, and averted his gaze. “Reopening the shop was something tough for me… Because it was not just about reforming the space, buying new machinery and unburying old recipes. It was also about coming to terms with painful things that happened on the past, and moving forwards.”

Thranduil seemed at a loss of words, but soon he recovered and frowned, pensively.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “And yet,” he added ruefully, “you seem to be faring so much better than me.”

Bard shook his head. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “The only reason I’m here at all is because I have my children, who support me and inspire me and never let me give up.” He bit his lip, before smiling lightly. “They are the reason you even got to taste my family’s amazing baking.”

That startled a smile out of Thranduil, before he turned somber again.

“The way your family seems close…” He said in almost a whisper. “Makes me wish I had–!” He aborted, regret and then resignation quickly marking his face. “But I suppose there is no use in wishing.”

“Once again I disagree,” Bard said, confidently, surprising the other. “You can’t change what has been done, but you can wish to do things differently from now on. The next step is taking action.”

Thranduil considered that for a long time. In the end, he smiled, then chuckled.

“I had heard about attendants performing over-the-counter free therapy in bars and such before,” he said teasingly, with much of his usual mirth restored, “but never thought that happened in coffee shops as well.”

Bard snorted, silently relieved he had managed to attenuate Thranduil’s dark mood.

“’Free’?” He replied, mockingly scandalized. “I’ll have you know I charge by the hour.”

Thranduil laughed freely at that, and Bard thought at that moment he could not think about a prettier sound.

The blond signed, looking wonderingly across the table.

“If only negotiations with Oakenshield had been quicker,” he muttered, a hint of annoyance transmitting in his voice.

“Just admit to yourself already you like arguing with him as much as he enjoys arguing with you,” Bard said, provocatively.

“The point is, they took too long,” Thranduil continued, glaring at the brunet’s interruption. “Otherwise I would have stopped by sooner,” he nonchalantly added.

Something warm spread within Bard’s chest. And suddenly, the conversation’s mood changed yet again.

“Oh?” He murmured, resting an elbow on the table and his chin on his hand.

Thranduil hummed, mirroring Bard’s position – only with ten times more grace.

“I find myself…drawn to you,” the blond confessed, after a few moments of silence.

Bard swallowed in hard.

“And I–“ He paused, voice dry. “I haven’t thought about anyone in such a way in a long time.” And before he lost his nerve, Bard pushed forward and brushed his lips softly, oh, so softly, against Thranduil’s.

Their first kiss tasted of cinnamon and vanilla. And it was gentle, and tentative, and warm, and hopeful.

Afterwards, they gazed into each other’s eyes, and for a moment, Bard could see the fear, the expectation, the longing and the loss that he felt mirrored in deep blue eyes, before the shields which guarded them came to life once again.

It took his breath away.

Their second kiss tasted of desire and lust. And it was vicious, and bold, and hot and intense. It left them awkwardly grabbing for each other through the table, panting.

“I’m staying at the hotel just down the street,” Thranduil murmured, face inches apart from Bard’s.

Bard’s eyes widened. “I don’t–“ He sputtered, suddenly incredibly nervous.

“We don’t have to–“ Thranduil started, but was interrupted.

“No, I want to,” Bard said, looking down. “It’s just… I haven’t been with anyone else since–“ He cut himself.

They were quiet for a while, before Thranduil stood up soundlessly. He walked over to Bard’s side. In front of the startled man, he calmly removed his elegant overcoat, then his gloves and finally he pushed up the sleeves of his turtleneck sweater.

Horrible burn scars covered his skin and distorted his flesh. They extended all the way from his fingers to his elbows, and disappeared under the clothing.

“Me neither,” Thranduil said softly. “Not since the fire–“, emotion chocked his words, leaving the phrase unfinished. Bard needed nothing else to understand what he was implying, for he knew all to well that same despairingly, consuming pain.

Overwhelmed by the meaning of such an act of confidence and by the desire to wrap the other man in his arms and never let go, Bard, speechless, simply gave a firm nod.

Thranduil extended one marred hand. Bard secured it in both of his, never breaking eye contact.

Together, they left the coffee shop.

o.O.o

One year later, Dale was known for their greatly praised croissants.

The Oropherion’s summerhouse was restored to its former beauty.

And Bard had developed quite the taste for fancy wines. 

While Thranduil had become an almost expected sight in the town’s most famous coffee shop.


End file.
